Before I could read, I knew all about death. It was so much a part of my early years to be bluntly confronted with it that, as far as I knew, there was no emotion attached to it—no fear, no sorrow, no revulsion. 

A person who died would be rolled into a rush mat and taken away on a handcart. Her possessions, especially if they included a crumb or a grain of food, were fought over, and the place she vacated would be “tchooped” even before the corpse was removed. (To tchoop was a camp word meaning to take possession or “claim.”) 

“Mrs. So-and-So is dead” was a statement like “it is raining.” 

I saw dead women every day: their legs gave out during the prolonged roll calls in the kampulan square (the roll call square); they fell forward, backward, or sideways while on work detail; they did not get up when it grew light in the morning; or they sat down or lay down in the middle of the day, closed their eyes, and turned out to be dead. 

From “Sunken Red” by Jeroen Brouwers 

This autobiographical book is one of the best pieces of literature I have ever read. It recounts the harrowing story of Dutch women and children interned in a Japanese concentration camp during World War II. The book relates the author’s testimony as a five-year-old child who grew up in captivity. He knew all about death. It provides a chilling glimpse into the suffering of innocent civilians in those prisons: 

 “I saw dead women every day: their legs gave out during the prolonged roll calls in the kampulan  square (the roll call square); they fell forward, backward, or sideways while on work detail; they did not get up when it grew light in the morning; or they sat down or lay down in the middle of the day, closed their eyes, and turned out to be dead.” 

This terrible chapter smeared the dignity of the Japanese people. While some military officers were executed for criminal acts, the emperor and his relatives were never judged.